Don't Wait Up
by Flaignhan
Summary: Apparently, he doesn't know what to say. First time for everything.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Spoilers for His Last Vow. This is a two parter. Second part hopefully written and posted tomorrow. Hope you like.

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><p><strong>Don't Wait Up<strong>

**by Flaignhan**

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><p>Not a word is uttered on the journey to see him. The windows are tinted, so she has no idea where they're going, and she's stuck in the car for two and a half hours before it slows to a stop, and the door is opened by a tall suited man with plain features.<p>

"Follow me," he says.

Molly gets out of the car, glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs. A chilly blast of wind hits her and she shudders, pulling her coat tightly closed around her as she climbs the stone steps leading up to a set of large oak doors. The place is basically a country retreat, with large rooms, luxurious furniture and big open fireplaces. The only off putting thing is the abundance of dark suited agents, standing stock still at every doorway, eyes fixed on her as she passes them.

The man escorting her leads her through a maze of corridors, then down a set of stone steps. It's not so glamorous down here, but still considerably more decent than Belmarsh. Eventually they come face to face with a narrow wooden door, its black paint cracked and peeling. There is a complicated electronic lock attached to it, as well as heavy steel bolts at the top and bottom.

"It's pointless, really," a familiar drawling voice says. "But it's protocol."

Molly doesn't say anything, but looks up to Mycroft, who gives her a brief, sad smile. He swipes a pass against the electronic lock, and the agent unbolts the door.

"Go on," Mycroft says. "He's expecting you."

Molly pushes open the door and slips inside, closing it softly behind her. Whatever happens in here, whatever's said, she doesn't want an audience. This isn't like those few brief moments after the fall, this is different. There's no adrenaline here, just quiet resignation.

It's not right.

He looks up at her as she walks in, and she dumps her bag on the floor. He's sitting on the edge of an old wooden table that has certainly seen better days. There's a camp bed in the corner with a twisted sleeping bag strewn across it, his coat and scarf folded neatly on top of a small, splintered chest of drawers. It's shabby, and it doesn't suit him.

He's chewing on the inside of his lower lip; she can tell by the way it's pulling, just a little. Apparently, he doesn't know what to say. First time for everything.

He opens his arms, and at first Molly is confused. It looks as though he's asking for a hug, and if it were anyone else she would oblige, but this is Sherlock Holmes and he doesn't do hugs.

"Please," he mumbles.

She looks him straight in the eye and realises instantly that this is no joke. He's broken, completely, and he needs someone to hold him together. She doesn't know what's wrong (well, she knows he's killed a man) and she doesn't know how to fix it, but this she can do. Of course she can do this.

She steps forward and is surprised by how firmly he pulls her against him, his arms locking her into place, his face buried against her shoulder. She encircles her arms around his neck, resting the side of her face against his head, her fingers curling in his hair as she tries not to cry. It's silly, really. She doesn't even know what's happening, but if it can reduce Sherlock, her stupid Sherlock, to this, then she will put money on it being substantial enough to earn a few tears from her.

"Tell me," she whispers. "Sherlock, tell me."

He pulls away from her at last, his arms relaxing their grip and sliding down to her waist.

"You can't tell John," he says, fixing her with a piercing look. "Or Mary. Promise me, Molly. Promise me you won't tell them."

"I didn't tell him you were alive," Molly says. "For two years. So yeah, I promise. You can trust me."

"I know I can," Sherlock says offhandedly, as though this goes without saying. "But now I need you to not tell him that I'm dead."

"Should be easy enough," Molly says, but when she allows her lips to curve into a small smile, it falters the second she meets his eyes. He's giving her the look. The look that says that they both know what's going on, but today it isn't smug, it isn't laced with pride, it's just plain hopelessness.

Molly shakes her head slowly. "No..."

"I'm to take on some undercover work in Eastern Europe," he says, his voice reverting to its usual detached tone. It's as though the light has flicked off behind his eyes, as though Sherlock Holmes has already departed. He's given up, and he never gives up.

"Mycroft expects it to last six months," he tells her, withdrawing his arms from her and resting his hands on his knees, his head bowed, hair blocking his eyes from her view. "Or rather," he says looking up, "He expects me to last six months."

She's confused. When he says 'last' it sounds like he's going on a suicide mission, but Mycroft wouldn't do that, not to his own brother, surely?

"What d'you mean?" she asks in a small voice, already dreading the answer. Her intestines twist themselves into knots as he stares at her, his features set in a solemn expression. Molly looks down at his knees, his fingers tapping against them rapidly, and places her hands over his, stilling them. There are a million and one thoughts racing through her head but she can't grasp any of them long enough to make sense of them. It's a death sentence, and they're going to get as much out of him as they possibly can before he dies what's likely to be a slow and painful death.

A terrorist would have received better treatment. Jim, at least, received a trial. And yet, here Mycroft is, sending his younger brother off into the wilderness to die.

"You could run away," she says, grasping at straws. She knows he never would, knows he is far too proud, but for once, just this once, she wishes he would be as selfish as he has been in the past.

"I've caused Mycroft enough trouble already," he sighs.

"He can't just do this," Molly says, shaking her head. "He can't."

"Of course he can," Sherlock says exasperatedly. "He's Mycroft. The Prime Minister answers to him."

"But what's he going to tell your mum and dad?"

Sherlock shrugs. "That I'm abroad and can't come back, most likely. And no family holidays to visit, either." He closes his hands around Molly's, his thumbs brushing against her knuckles gently, soothingly. She feels empty inside, as though she's been blasted through the chest with a shotgun and everything has been drained out of her. She can't think through the weight of the situation. This is the last time she's going to see him and there are so many things she wants to say but they all seem so pointless, so pathetic, and so bloody _stupid_.

A hot tear falls down her face, and she clamps her front teeth down on her bottom lip to keep any more from following. Tears are the last thing he needs - he needs support, not a breakdown. He takes one of his hands away from hers and brushes her tear aside, before pulling her against his chest as more tears begin to flow, her hands shaking as she grips the sides of his shirt. He cradles her head against him, his fingers tangling in her hair, and she thinks there must be a way to solve it. There _must be_.

"Fix it," she says, pulling away and wiping impatiently at her face. "You're Sherlock Holmes, so fix it."

"Molly - "

"Just because they're sending you away, it doesn't mean you have to die. You could do whatever they ask and then come _home_." Her eyes are filling up with tears again, her voice cracking, and Sherlock's shaking his head and she _can't_ just let him give up like this. She _can't_.

"Molly, these people - "

"I don't _care_."

"Molly, if I could then I _would_, but I can't." He detaches himself from her completely and starts pacing around the room, his breaths coming in shaky gasps. He's panicking, just like she is, and all she's doing is kicking up a fuss rather than helping him come to terms with things.

"But you have to come home," she pleads, not bothering to stem the flow of tears now. It's pointless, he's seen her cry before and this does seem like a decent enough reason to be upset. Even he couldn't begrudge her this. "You _have to_."

"Molly - "

"You did it before," she protests. "You made everyone think you were dead before. You fooled everybody."

"_You_ fooled everybody," he says pointedly.

"Well I'll come with you then. Or I'll meet you out there, wherever _there _is. And I'll help. We'll fix it."

"Don't you _dare_," he says through gritted teeth, one clenched fist smashing against the wall. Molly flinches, her breath catching in her throat. "You've already risked enough to save my life. You're not going to pay the price for what I've done."

"There has to be a way," she whispers. "There _has to be_."

"Molly, I'm not coming home," he says softly. "I'm going to die, and there's nothing either of us can do."

"But why are you only telling _me_?" Her voice is cracked, broken, just like the rest of her is, but somehow he hears through the distortion, through the drama of the tears he can hear every word she utters. He stops pacing, straightens up at that question, and suddenly, just for a moment, he's almost like his old self again.

"Well I would have thought that was obvious," he says, staring at her from the corner of the room.

"Not to me," Molly breathes, shaking her head. She wipes at her eyes and sniffs, trying (despite knowing how futile her efforts are) to catch a breather, to maybe get just a shade of her voice back so she can converse with him like a grown up instead of this blubbering, wailing child she has turned into.

"Erm," he says, raising his eyebrows and casting his gaze down at the floorboards. He clasps his hands behind his back, pressing his lips together as his eyebrows draw into a frown. "Well…"

"Sherlock…"

He blinks, and apparently decides that he can stall no longer. "I need you to know the absolute truth of things," he says. He won't look at her, and when she doesn't say anything, he continues. "I can't have you making decisions based on a lie, that I'm alive and well and one day might come back home. I can't let that happen. Not to you."

"Don't wait up?" she mumbles thickly, a fresh stream of tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Yeah, basically," he says with a humourless laugh. His eyes are overbright and she can tell he's trying to make this easy for her, but she'd rather he didn't. She'd rather he let out whatever he needs to let out, say whatever he needs to say, but she knows that won't happen.

"I love you," she says, before she can think twice. She wipes at her eyes again, even though it's no bloody use because the tears just won't stop, and his lips curve into the faintest of smiles.

"I know you do," he says, nodding his head. "I know you do."

"Yeah, I _know_," Molly ploughs on. "But I can't let you walk into a death trap without me saying it. Without me letting you know just how much."

"Molly - "

"Without letting you know that you mean the _world_ to me, Sherlock Holmes, and…and…" She breaks into sobs, covering her face with her hands, hiding from him as each one rips through her, and within milliseconds he's there, arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her close, supporting her weight when she feels as though her legs might give way at any moment. She clings to him, sobbing into his chest, and tries to commit this moment to memory. There are happier ones to be sure, but this is him, and she will only ever want to remember him, at his most human, because there are a host of youtube clips and press conferences that have him being the consulting detective, but no real evidence of him ever being a man.

"I'm not really…I've never…"

He's stumbling over his words and Molly holds onto him more tightly, her ear pressed against his chest, his heart thudding loudly his ribcage. She wonders how many beats it has left, whether she'll feel anything in her own heart when his finally stops, or whether she'll just wake up one day, six months from now and realise that he's probably gone and she'll never hear anything to the contrary.

"If it was ever going to be anyone, it would have probably been you."

She freezes, his heart still pounding, sounding like a distant bass drum now. She looks up at him with watery eyes. "I don't believe you."

"Well you should," he says, avoiding her eye. "You've saved my life more times than you'll ever know. You make me a better person." His last few words are stiff, as though he's not quite ready to admit them, but knows he'll have no other chance.

"You're telling me this _now_?"

"Yeah I know, I'm an arsehole, aren't I?" he says in a rush, unable to keep the ghost of a smile from flitting across his lips. "Sorry."

Molly shakes her head in disbelief. Part of her thinks he might be saying this to make her feel better, to let her know, before she walks out into that cold harsh world that will soon be all the colder and harsher for his absence, that she too is cared for. But if he'd been lying, he'd have looked her straight in the eye. He wouldn't have faltered. He would have declared himself fully and without room for misinterpretation.

"Promise me something else."

"Anything," she whispers.

"Find someone," he says, and it's not what she wants to hear. She tried someone else and it just didn't _work_. "Find someone twice as good as you think I am," he continues. "And then find someone better."

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," Molly says sceptically.

"_Don't settle_," he says firmly. "Promise me. Don't. Settle."

"Yeah, I promise," she says quickly. "I _promise_."

"Good," he says, and takes a deep breath, nodding his head. "Good."

There is a soft knock at the door and Molly's heart leaps into her throat. She's not ready to go, she can't leave him, not now, not to just let him be dropped off wherever Mycroft sees fit and enter certain death.

"No," she says, clinging onto his hands and shaking her head. "No."

"You have to," he says, trying to pull his hands from hers but she's gripping them too tightly. "You _have to_."

The door creaks open behind her and she sees Sherlock shoot a venomous look over her shoulder, before firmly removing her hands from his own and taking her by the shoulders. He leans forward, and presses his lips softly against her forehead, even more tears spilling down her cheeks, and she wonders how she can possibly have any left.

"Sherlock no…" she begs. "Please don't…"

"It's going to be all right," he tells her. "I promise you it'll be all right."

"It _won't_, don't lie to me!"

"Oh Molly," he says frustratedly. "You'll find another sociopath and who knows, maybe this next one'll make it to middle age. Third time lucky, isn't that what they say?" His words come out in such a rush that it takes a moment for her to process them. He seems to have only realised what he's said after it's too late to take the words back, and silence falls between them, filling the few feet of space that now might as well be miles.

"You're an arsehole," she says blankly.

"I know," he says, pressing his lips together and watching her carefully. "I know."

She can't think of anything to say, and she looks at the open door, the stairs ahead leading up to the light and airy rooms of the main house. She has to go, she knows. If she doesn't go now, she never will. She turns back to him, taking one last look, drinking in the exact angles that make up his face, the colour of his eyes, the way his hair falls softly over his forehead, the freckle on his neck, the way his shirt collar sits, revealing a small triangle of smooth pale skin. She looks down at his hands, knowing with certainty at last that she will never walk down the street with her own hand clasped in his. Never again will she hear him turn up in the middle of the night, kicking off his shoes and demanding the use of her flat. Never again will he sweep into her lab, expecting her to drop everything because there's been a murder and he's more excited than a kid at Christmas.

"I'll miss you," she whispers.

"Course you will," he says matter-of-factly, and for a moment, she hates him for it. "But you'll be fine."

"Yeah," she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Maybe."

"_Definitely._"

"See you then," she says, her voice coming out in a small squeak as she fights back her tears. She picks up her bag, and is shaking all over, but she can't bring herself to walk out the open door. But then he smiles at her.

"Laters," he says, and he winks. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, and so she leaves, before she can do either, rushing up the stairs and trying not to run back down when she hears the door close and the bolts slide across. When she reaches the top of the stairs, she turns around, hoping to maybe call something back to him, something that will make him laugh, or at least smile. But Mycroft is at the foot of the stairs, swinging his umbrella from his right hand, watching its progress boredly as it sways back and forth.

"Not a _word_, Miss Hooper."

"Why?" Molly demands, all traces of frailty vanishing from her tone. "Because of the shame it would bring on you?"

Mycroft doesn't say a word, and damn right too. There's nothing he could say to her that would ever justify his actions.

"You're a heartless _bastard_, Mycroft Holmes. You know that, don't you?"

Before he can even begin to think of a reply, Molly shoves past the two agents guarding the top of the stairs and storms down the corridor. She can't breathe, she needs to get outside. Outside and far, far away.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **And here is part two for your reading pleasure - the result of a very productive day at work. Thanks to those who reviewed the first part, so glad you liked it. Keep an eye out for the follow up to Schoolgirl Crush which I'm starting tonight and hopefully will be posting in the next few days.

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><p><strong>Don't Wait Up<strong>

**by Flaignhan**

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><p>She's barely said a word for days. She replies to Happy New Year texts with smiley faces and well wishes, but she is huddled miserably in a blanket on her sofa, going through years and years worth of texts from him. It's a closed book now, no more stories to add. Never will she get another demand for various body parts at four o'clock in the morning, nor will she receive any texts asking her if she wants coffee because he needs to use her flat and is stopping at Nero on his way. She bites her lip as she scrolls back to the texts he sent her when he was away last time. They came from random numbers, burner phones, he had told her later, and had always been utter nonsense. Rubbish about PPI claims, special offers from local takeaways, but she had always been able to distinguish between the real spam and his fake spam.<p>

She tosses her phone to the other end of the sofa, unwilling to torture herself anymore, and wraps her arms around her knees, hugging them against her chest. It's strange that she can mourn for a man despite knowing that at this moment, he is still alive and well, but she supposes it's her turn. John mourned last time, unaware that Sherlock was still out there, and this time, he'll plod along with married life, content in the knowledge that Sherlock's playing secret agents and is alive and well and probably drinking a vodka martini somewhere. Meanwhile Molly will think about him non stop, will try to wish him back into existence, will consider jumping on a plane and going to get him out of this mess herself for the next six months. But time will slip by and she'll make excuses, she'll convince herself that he'll be all right in the end because he's Sherlock Holmes and he's indestructible.

Except he's not.

She's grown up a lot in the last few years, and though she still loves him as much as she ever has, he's been knocked off of his pedestal. It's no bad thing, because she feels as though she is finally his equal, something which she should have realised years ago. Maybe things would have been different if she had.

It's all rather redundant. All that would have changed was the number of heartbreaks she had suffered at his expense. A few more, a few less, who knows?

She won't ever know, that's for certain.

She shrugs her blanket off of her shoulders, reaches for her phone and then goes to bed, wondering whether he's pacing around that tiny little room, or whether he's lying stock still on his camp bed, fingers steepled and resting against his chin, and, like her, wishing that there were a way out of this.

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><p>She goes into autopilot at work, and finds the morgue to be the most relaxing place. If she's busy with her hands inside someone else's corpse, it doesn't give her time to think about what Sherlock's will look like, when everything's over.<p>

Greg comes to see her in the late afternoon with a few questions about the girl on her slab. She reels off answers, barely meeting his eye, and when she's done, she zips up the girl's body bag and peels off her latex gloves, flinging them into the bin.

"You okay?" he asks. "You seem a bit...off, lately."

She doesn't know what to say. Greg has no idea what's going on, and she can't even mention Sherlock's name or she'll have Mycroft breathing down her neck, watching her every move. He probably already is, but he'll make no secret of it if she dares step one toe out of line. She'd rather not have the hassle.

"I'm fine," she sighs. "I'll be fine."

"You sure?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," Molly replies, meeting his eye at last. "Sure."

"Well if you need anything, give us a shout, don't just hide away down here with the dead, all right?"

"I'm gonna go get a coffee," Molly says quickly, squeezing her words out around the lump in her throat. She darts out of the morgue and escapes to the staffroom, her back pressed against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fights against the hot prickling in the corners of her eyes.

_He's still alive. He's still alive. He's fine. He's not dead. _

_Not yet. _

She slides down to the floor, pressing her shaking hands against her face, trying and failing to get a grip on herself. She stays there for half an hour, watching the red second hand tick its way slowly around the clock, until she is certain that Greg will be gone. He'll have questions, she knows, and she can't answer them, wouldn't even if she could. There's no need for anyone else's heart to break over Sherlock, is there?

She heads to the lab, prepared to lose herself in numbers, but when she walks in, something catches her eye. She drops her coffee, the mug smashing on the floor, hot specks of liquid burning her feet, but she doesn't care. The face on the computer screen sends a chill down her spine, her stomach churning as she tries to get her head around what she's seeing.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

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><p>She checks and double checks the locks on her front door when she gets in. Her heart is thudding in her chest, and she goes to check the windows, turning the keys in each of the locks then removing them and placing them safely in her pocket. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end, and she slowly approaches her bedroom door, her hand reaching out to turn the handle. She can't cope with this level of stress, blood rushing through her veins, but she enters the room anyway, knowing that the alternative is stressing all night and staring at the door, not knowing who, or even if, anyone is inside, lying in wait.<p>

Her breath escapes her in a sigh of relief when she finds the room to be empty. She makes good use of her sudden surge in feelings of security, checking quickly behind the door, under the bed, and inside the wardrobe. She moves onto the bathroom next, pulling shower curtain roughly aside, to find nothing but plain white tiles and a couple of half empty bottles of shampoo.

She settles on the sofa, wrapping her blanket around her, and is about to switch on the television, when her text alert sounds loudly, scaring the life out of her. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and glances at it. The whole thing is a mess of misplaced capital letters, asking her if she's had an accident at work that wasn't her fault, and she rolls her eyes, tossing her phone away. She wonders how long the jumpiness will last, whether she'll be living in paranoia for as long as Jim's around. If he finds out that she helped Sherlock, she'll become a target, she knows she will. But, there are very few people who know that she did in fact help him, and none of them would snitch on her, would they?

There is a knock at the door, and Molly gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, too late to silence the sound, but soon enough to muffle her erratic breathing, just in case they haven't heard her. She listens hard, trying ignore the sound of her heart, thumping against the inside of her ribcage. After a moment, she hears an exasperated sigh, and then a gentle metallic clicking, before the handle of the lock turns.

She doesn't have any way to escape, and she prays that the safety chain on the door will hold just long enough to give her enough time to figure something out. She reaches across to her phone, flicking it onto silent mode before she slides her thumb across the bottom of the screen, and begins typing a four letter text to Greg.

_Help_

The door opens and she drops her phone without hitting send, but the chain halts its progress, only allowing a two inch gap between the edge of the door and the door frame.

"Oh for crying out loud, Molly," a frustrated voice says. "Just open the bloody door."

Molly can hardly believe her ears, and leaps up from the sofa, scrambling towards the door and pushing it closed, her hands fumbling with the chain until she frees it, and it falls slack against the door frame. She pulls the door open again, not daring to believe it until she actually sees him.

It's him all right, exactly as she remembers him, the collar of his coat turned up, his hair falling in soft curls, the faint lines on his forehead caused by years of incredulous facial expressions at the infinite stupidity of those around him.

"There's been a bit of a game changer," he says slowly, his eyes fixed on hers.

"I know," she breathes.

"Obviously," he says, his fingertips grazing the security chain. "Anyway, it's given me a get out of jail free card, so to speak."

"Good timing," she says, her voice barely managing to make it above a whisper. He smiles, and Molly steps aside, allowing him to enter. He closes the door behind him, turns the lock, and reattaches the chain, his fingers lingering against it before he turns back to face Molly.

"Better safe than sorry. Though I don't think you need to worry too much." He shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the hook, on top of Molly's, then pulls his scarf from around his neck and slips that over the hook too.

"I thought it was him," Molly says, laughing nervously, her heart finally slowing to a vaguely normal rate. "Or one of his people."

Sherlock frowns. "Didn't you get my text?"

Molly blinks, then remembers the unsent text to Greg on her phone, and rushes over to the sofa, picking up her phone and deleting the text before she accidentally sends it and armed police descend on the building. She navigates back to her inbox and finds the spam compensation text, flicking over to it, rolling her eyes now that she looks at it properly.

_HAve yOU had an accident that was soMEone ELse's fault? INjury lawyer specialists caN Help. You could be told in TWO MINUTES whether you could stand to earn a considerable payout. Call now. _

She can see through it in seconds. Every other capital letter in the first two sentences is discarded, and the two minutes is just that. Simple really, easy to crack, but nothing in it at all. Nothing except _home in two minutes_, that is.

She drops the phone back onto the sofa cushion, smiling sheepishly.

"Wasn't expecting you to be in touch."

"Christ, I was only on the plane for four minutes, you didn't think I was dead already, did you?"

Molly shrugs. "I thought I was never going to see you again," she says softly. "So what difference does it make?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows but says nothing. Molly bites her lip, then steps towards him. She needs to make sure that he's real, that he's not just a hallucination brought on by grief. She stops when she's standing in front of him, just inches away, then wraps her arms around him, leaning her head against his chest, listening out for those heartbeats which are no longer a countdown. He closes his arms around her in return, and it's different to last time. He doesn't need this to keep him from breaking, but at the same time, it doesn't feel as though he's simply trying to placate her. It hovers somewhere between the two, and Molly breathes in his scent, allowing it to wash over her, calming her jittery nerves.

She wonders what will happen now, now all of those last words have been said, only for them to be flung back together again by luck, or fate, she doesn't know which and nor does she care. But he might, and that troubles her.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ear. "That you had to go through all that for...nothing."

"I'd rather have known," she says softly in reply. "Don't ever lie to me about something like that. The truth's more important than my feelings."

"Noted," he says. "Though I'm hoping this dead, not dead nonsense isn't going to be a regular thing. Plays havoc with my bank cards."

Molly laughs into his chest and then pulls away from him, trying to swallow down the tears of relief that are threatening to build.

"So you're properly back now?" she asks, holding onto his jacket, not quite ready to have him out of reach just yet.

"Properly back," he confirms with a small smile. She lets out a sigh of relief and releases him. "About what I said," he adds slowly.

Molly's stomach plummets and she takes a step away from him. Is he really going to take it all back? Couldn't he have just left it alone? Does he really need to pile on the hurt after all she's been through this past week and a half?

"What about it?" she asks coolly, folding her arms across her stomach.

"More specifically about what I said about finding someone," he continues, looking down at his hands.

"Twice as good as you are and then better?" she reminds him, knowing it's a stupidly tall ask.

"Actually," he says, the corner of his mouth quirking into a faint smirk. "I said twice as good as _you think_ I am, and then better."

"And?"

He gestures towards himself, his eyes meeting hers, and his teeth drag nervously against his lower lip. "Hello."

She stares at him, wondering if this is some kind of joke. _Not dead, and by the way, you're going to be in love with me forever and there's nothing you can do about it, isn't that hilarious?_

"What are you saying?" she asks quietly.

"Bit harder to say when not faced with certain death," he says, crinkling his nose and fiddling with his shirt cuffs. He's not looking at her again, and so Molly approaches, taking his hands in hers to cease his fidgeting.

"Sherlock," she says firmly. "What are you saying?"

He lets out a frustrated sigh. "When I said it _probably_ would have been you I actually meant definitely," he says in a rush. "It _definitely_ would have been you."

Molly blinks, and allows that information to sink in. Then, she looks up at him, her hand moving to gently turn his head so he's looking her in the eye. She doesn't leave another moment for hesitation, and rises onto her tiptoes, her lips meeting his. He responds immediately, his hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss. She grips his jacket tightly, hardly daring to believe that this is reality, and when they break apart, his breath mingles with hers, warm against her skin.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" she breathes, her hand brushing lightly against his jaw then coming to rest on his shoulder.

"That was the plan," he murmurs.

"Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised." He lets out a small breath of laughter and presses a kiss to her neck. Her breath catches in her throat, her hand gripping his shoulder tighter, and she can feel him smile against her skin. "I told you, didn't I?" he says softly into her ear. "If it was ever going to be anyone…"

She lets that idea sink in for a moment, her smile growing, and then takes his hands in her own. She takes a step backwards, and another, and he follows her. She knows her flat so well that she doesn't have to watch where she's going, doesn't have to sidestep any furniture at the last minute, and eventually, she feels the hard, solid surface of her bedroom door against her back. She releases one of his hands, and he places it on her hip, sliding his thumb under her blouse and stroking her skin. She takes the door handle in her hand and turns it, the door swinging open behind her, and she steps back into the darkness, taking Sherlock with her.

* * *

><p><strong>The End.<strong>


End file.
